


For Sentimental Reasons

by PenPistola



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenPistola/pseuds/PenPistola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames sure has been acting oddly today, doing all these nice things...</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Sentimental Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> From bookshop's [Fluff Meme](http://bookshop.livejournal.com/1077148.html?thread=39640476#t39640476).
> 
> Title from "I Love You (For Sentimental Reasons)" as covered by Nat King Cole, which I danced to at my wedding. It's a favorite.
> 
> You can also read this story [here](http://pen-pistola.livejournal.com/8885.html#cutid1) on my LJ.

Arthur wakes to a hand being trailed over the bare skin of his back, alternating pressure between a touch so light it nearly tickles, and a heavier, stroking massage.  
  
"Mmh," he says into the pillow, digging his nose into the down and blinking sleepily. "Eames, what are you doing?"  
  
"Touching you," comes the response, and Arthur can tell by the shape of his words that he's smiling.  
  
"Why?" he asks, more out of curiosity than unpleasantness—because this certainly isn't unpleasant.  
  
"Just felt like it," is Eames' non-answer. After a moment Arthur feels the bed shift when Eames pushes off to stand, and hears the slap of his bare feet as he makes his way toward the kitchen. Arthur mouths the words to himself, ' _Just felt like it?_ ' as he stretches under the sheets and scratches muzzily at his temple.  
  
***  
  
Eames is still barefooted despite the cold floors and prodding at a pan of French toast when Arthur finally makes it to the kitchen. "You're making French toast," he says helpfully.  
  
"Mhmm."  
  
"And you're wearing my sweatpants."  
  
Eames finally turns to him, and his expression reads only mildly surprised. "Am I?" he says, and looks down. "So I am."  
  
Arthur had meant for the comment to lead somewhere, but Eames doesn't seem to have anything else to say on the subject. He flips the toast onto a plate with the spatula, dusts it with an obscenely thick coating of confectioner's sugar and sets it down on the bar. Arthur slides onto a stool, eyebrows raised. "I'm not sure  _why_  you decided to make my favorite breakfast food, but thanks."  
  
"Don't mention it," Eames grins, and now Arthur  _knows_  something's up, because Eames never accepts a compliment like that without tacking on some witty rejoinder or another. But before Arthur can say anything else, Eames turns back to the stove and plops another piece of toast into the pan, whistling tuneless musicals under his breath.  
  
***  
  
They roll into work at ten, still earlier than Ariadne or Cobb. Yusuf is the only one in the warehouse, humming to himself in the back room and poring over his notes. Arthur sits down at his desk, prepared to do some work, but it's pretty useless when it's just them and nobody else is watching. Eames forgoes his research of the mark (it's an easy job, really) and plants himself on the corner of Arthur's desk, offering unhelpful commentary whenever he can and generally being a nuisance. Arthur puts up with this for all of fifteen minutes before he tosses his pencil down with a sigh. "Is there something you want, Eames?"  
  
"To be honest, there is," Eames smiles hesitantly, and when Arthur levels a stare at him, he slides off the desk. "Just a mo'."  
  
He disappears off into one of the unused storage rooms and comes back a moment later wheeling an ancient plastic cart with a wooden box atop it. The box has a plug, which he inserts into Arthur's power strip.  
  
"What are you-" Arthur starts, but Eames opens the box and it's pretty self-explanatory. "Where did you even get-"  
  
' _I love you... for sentimental reasons_...' Nat King Cole croons in a dusky baritone, warm and crackling even from the record player's ancient speakers.  
  
Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur. "Cobb and Ariadne won't be in for another thirty minutes. Care to dance?"  
  
Arthur realizes his mouth is hanging open and shuts it. "Seriously?" he says, once he's regained his composure.  
  
"C'mon, it's a short song," Eames wheedles, and Arthur is in no way moved by his puppy dog eyes, but he gives a jerky nod anyway.  
  
It's not so bad with Eames' arms around him, swaying slowly to the music.  
  
' _I hope you do believe me; I've given you... my heart._ '  
  
***  
  
Arthur manages to be productive after all, despite Eames distracting him and Ariadne's odd looks. If he wasn't convinced of her professional integrity, Arthur might have thought she looked  _dreamy_. But she's been giving the same look to Eames, so maybe she's just spaced out. Because the idea of her purposefully looking at Eames like  _that_... Arthur shakes his head.  
  
"You look ready to get out of here." Eames has somehow materialized behind Arthur with Arthur's car keys dangling off his finger. "It's after eight; do you want some dinner?"  
  
Arthur snags the keys from him with a grumble. "I wish you wouldn't steal my things."  
  
"You left them on the corner of your desk. I know a great place around the corner, with the best lobster you ever had."  
  
Arthur blinks at the non-sequitur. "...Lobster?"  
  
"I'll buy," Eames beams at him.  
  
It really is pretty delicious, even though Arthur for the life of him can't figure out why they're here, of all places.  
  
***  
  
"Want another massage?" Eames asks later as he hangs his scarf on their coat rack.  
  
Arthur tosses his briefcase down and whirls around. "Okay, Eames," he says, striding over until they're almost nose to nose. "You win. What gives?"  
  
"What _gives?_ " If anything, Eames' grin is even wider than it's been all day.  
  
"You know what I'm talking about! You were touching me this morning, and it was nice, you made me French toast, you danced with me, you took me out to dinner... and unless I've had a major lapse of sanity, my birthday isn't for another two months. So what. Gives."  
  
Eames actually laughs this time, a delighted little chuckle like he's just been given the keys to the candy shop. "Really, Arthur, you haven't figured it out?"  
  
"...No."  
  
Arthur suppresses a flinch when Eames leans in close to his ear and whispers, "Happy anniversary."  
  
"I... wha-?"  
  
Arthur is shocked. He's flummoxed. Dumbfounded. Poleaxed. It's possible there's not even a word strong enough for how he feels, but if he had to make one up, it might be something like 'headkersploded'. "Eames," he says slowly, once he's recovered a little. "We're... we're not dating."  
  
Eames' grin goes wider still. "No?"  
  
"N-no," Arthur stammers, loosening his tie and taking a step back. "What would even make you think...?"  
  
"Arthur, I live in your apartment."  
  
Arthur's eyebrows knit together. "Eames, we agreed that it was stupid for you to keep staying at your apartment on the other side of town when mine was so much closer to the warehouse. That's all."  
  
"I cook you food and take you to dinner." Eames is positively beatific.  
  
"You know what would happen if I cooked; you remember the food poisoning incident. And besides, I pay for dinner when we go out as often as you do."  
  
"I sleep in your bed," says Eames, taking a few steps closer and backing Arthur into the arm of the couch.  
  
"It's January and my heater's broken. We'd both freeze to death if you were on the couch."  
  
"Your heater's been broken for six months, Arthur; you've had plenty of time to get it fixed. And you cuddle. Think about it. All signs point to yes."  
  
"I meant to fix, it, but I've been... Work... Busy," Arthur argues feebly. He can feel realization sinking in like an egg cracked over his head. He thinks back a year, to right after the Fischer job. To when Cobb had set up his new base in Seattle, close to his kids and with access to more legitimate jobs than the ones they'd been doing. To when Arthur finally got tired of Eames coming in late to work after his commute, and offered him a spot on the couch. To when they'd had dinner that first night Eames was over, Chinese takeout and beer, and they'd stayed up talking and laughing until three in the morning. Exactly a year ago.  
  
"Shit," Arthur breathes. He doesn't quite understand how it can feel so life-changing when absolutely nothing at all has  _changed_ , not between now and five minutes ago.  
  
"Sneaks up on you, doesn't it?" Eames' smile is kind this time.  
  
"...Yeah," Arthur says after a moment, right before he drags Eames in by the neck for a deep, wet kiss. When he opens his eyes, they've fallen back on the couch and now his world really is upside down, the better to match his state of mind. Eames runs his hands through Arthur's hair, and Arthur shrugs helplessly—there's really only one thing to say.  
  
"Happy anniversary," he whispers back.


End file.
